


Fidget

by RocketRabbits



Category: Fantastic Mr. Fox
Genre: Gen, Second person POV, Slash if you squint, cute fox boys growing up, i just wanted to write about cute cousins tbh, i should probably tag something else??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:52:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocketRabbits/pseuds/RocketRabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ash fidgets with his paws. You wish you wouldn't have noticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fidget

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this was originally a lot more shippy but then.

Ash fidgets with his paws. You only know this because you watched him do it once, and it irked you that he couldn't be bothered reach the extra half-inch to his sleeves. He just twists his paws and grasps indecisively at nothing, like he expects a proper response to come if he just grabs for one.

You think it's a nervous tic. You aren't sure, because the more you observe, the more you notice it usually prefaces the telltale ear-twitch-spit so indicative of his anger. Though, they aren't mutually exclusive. When he says anything important, his nails itch at the pads of his paws.

Ash doesn’t fidget when he speaks to you. Mostly he doesn’t speak to you, but when he does it’s usually with an ear-twitch-spit, and the occasional growl, not dancing fingers. You don’t know how to respond, so mostly you don’t. You aren’t used to this. You don’t know what you expected from him, but it wasn’t this.  You have  only been here one weekend and already it seems like he’s decided you are out to get him. But how could you be?

Nobody has ever had a problem with you until Ash. You've always been so calm and pleasant and good that nobody's had a reason to. You suppose it might be those traits he pinpoints, because he is so much the opposite of them. He’s short to your tall, even being a half-fox year older, his fur is mangy, and everything about him is ungraceful and awkward in a way painful to watch, like a cub, only... sadder.

You’re  in his class, six and three-fourths. It’s small, like the rest of the school and the surrounding community, but it works, you guess. Your school on the other side of the river is larger, but the quiet woodsyness of the forest is nice.

You get asked about Ash more than you thought you would. At first there were the standard questions, or what you always assumed were standard for the new kid.

_What’s the other side of the river like?_ Loud. A lot less private than the woods. A lot bigger, too.

_How good are you at Whackbat?_ Whackbat?

_Why does Ash keep glaring at you?_ I don’t know, but he’s been doing it for days.

They just keep going from there.

_Why’s he such a wet sandwich? What’s wrong with Ash? How are you so normal when he’s so... well, look at him._

 

You think you might be starting to get why he dislikes you.

___

“For the record, I don’t hate you.” You tell him from under his bed one night, and he eyes you warily in the darkness. You can’t see him, but you imagine he’s looking at you like he cannot believe his temperament is one sided.

“…Thanks.” He says, but it’s clipped and his voice doesn’t sound right. It falters halfway through the monosyllabic word, like he’s waiting for the punch line. Your heart pangs. You wish he wasn’t used to waiting for punch lines.

You like him a lot. He’s a good heart when he’s not acting out of jealousy or insecurity or whatever it is drives him to yell at you in the daylight hours and wordlessly switch on the train when your breathing sounds too ragged at night. You wish you could tell him but you aren't sure he would listen if you did. Ash is far too stubborn.

You resign to try anyway.

_ _ - --

 

A whole season passes before you work up the nerves to say something that should have easily been said in the pipes but it’s impossible to speak when you look at him, what with the way he stares everything down intently whether he means to or not, green eyes bright even in the dim coldness of a winter spent unnaturally underground. He’s become more intimidating. Ash shows more emotions in an hour than you’ve ever felt, you think, and he isn’t scared of it. Ash doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but it is undeniably present in his eyes and, sure, you’ve cried in his presence, but he’s always got a whole range of emotions passing through his face. You’ve heard and, admittedly, thought, that this was a sign of weakness, that growing up meant growing into easy and unreadable expressions. You’ve overheard people say how sweet you are but you have never met a soul colder. It’s occurred to you more than once that you and Ash fit your fur colours. He’s Autumn: cold, but warmer than your winter.

 

He doesn’t fidget so much. He doesn’t wear his cape, but he does tuck his pants into his mismatched socks. He doesn’t read Alone in the Arctic Circle quite so much, but White Cape is still a prominent role model and he makes no effort to hide it. You wonder why Ash insists on acting so young. You wonder why you insist on judging him so harshly.

 

The hole Foxy and your father dug is dark as you pad carefully across the kitchen that separates your family from his, and your bird heart flutters soundly against your chest. It shouldn’t be this hard to be nice to someone, especially family, but here you are anyway, more scared than you ever felt in the apple crate.

****  
  


The light from his open door filters into the hallway, warm and soft against the floor of the home. Ash’s room is borderline clean, as usual, his typical get up hung neatly over one edge of his bed. You’re sure he notices you, because he stops mid page flip, but he doesn’t say a word until you step in closer.

****  
  


You’re sure you’re the only one who feels this way, aside from maybe Aunt Felicity, but you think Ash is very brave. Not cunning and arrogant like his father, but maybe that’s better for him. Such a small fox with such a large amount of ambition could only stay so tolerable with even a touch of arrogance. He’s got enough, and even though it’s all bluff, it’s something. Foxy had started out bluff and ended up the best chicken thief on his side of the river.

You want to tell him all that, but what you say is: “Your side of the house is warmer.”

Ash rolls his eyes and tosses you a pillow and blanket wordlessly, a far cry from his reaction one and a half fox years ago. he flicks the light and you can hear him toss and rustle before you finally speak up.  
  
“For the record,” you start, and all noise ceases instantly. “I really admire you.”

You imagine him as you could probably see him if you looked close enough, all wide eyes and clutching paws and no matter how old he is he will never outgrow being so adorably homely, and at length, he responds.

“Thanks, Kristofferson,” he says, and it’s nothing the way it sounded so long ago in the tree house, all clipped words and no confidence that it could actually be true. “It means a lot to me.” **  
  
He doesn’t wait for a punchline.**


End file.
